Alcohol has inspired many songs, court cases and movies of the week. Chances are some of you reading this now probably entered this world via a road paved with smooth talk, Jeffrey Osborne and Zima.

Back in the 1960s there was a disc jockey at a Kinston radio station who by all accounts was a kind, gentle soul. He’d give you the shirt off his back, and apparently if he had enough to drink he’d offer the shirt even if you hadn’t asked for it. For the purposes of this story, we’ll refer to our hero as “Dee Jay.”

One night after his shift was over, Dee Jay made his way down to an establishment that sold a wide array of adult beverages. After several hours of thirst quenching, Dee Jay decided to head home. Conveniently, his hotel room was within walking distance from his saloon of choice.

As Dee Jay walked home, his gait was understandably wobbly. He walked with a combination of care and crooked that scared several onlookers and various wildlife into thinking an earthquake was afoot. Many doors were boarded and acorns buried along Dee Jay’s route that fateful night.

When he arrived in front of his building around 1 a.m., Dee Jay didn’t have the heart or equilibrium to climb the four flights of stairs to his room. Instead, he sat down on the sidewalk to think things over for a while. A few minutes later a policeman who knew Dee Jay drove by while making his rounds.

“Dee Jay, I know you ain’t hurtin’ anybody, but you can’t sit down on the sidewalk?” the officer asked. “When I come back around in a few minutes I want to you to be upstairs, okay?”

“Yes sir ossifer,” Dee Jay said.

About a half an hour later the policeman rolled by again and found Dee Jay sitting in the same spot on the sidewalk.

“Dee Jay, if you don’t go inside I’ve got to take you to jail,” the officer said sternly.

“Okie dokey Marshall Dillon...I’m goin’,” Dee Jay said.

Twenty minutes later the officer comes by and sees that Dee Jay hasn’t moved from his spot. Not having a choice, the policeman puts Dee Jay in the police car and takes him before the Lenoir County magistrate.

Magistrate: “What is your first name?”

Dee Jay: “Dee.”

Magistrate: “What is your last name?”

Dee Jay: “Jay.”

Magistrate: “What is your birth date?”

Dee Jay: “August 17th.”

Magistrate: “What year?”

Dee Jay: “Every **** year!”

My other favorite local tale of alcoholic overload comes from a high school acquaintance who answered to the name “Tank.” Tank and I didn’t really hang out, but one of us would occasionally say “Hey man, what’s up?” if we happened to be parked on the hill behind the mall at the same time.

During the time of our acquaintance, I was obsessed with music and Tank was obsessed with drinking. If he was respirating, he was either drinking, thinking about drinking or dreaming about drinking. I witnessed him poke holes in a beer can and inhale the contents as if it was a much needed serum for a snake bite. Once he rigged up a plastic tube/funnel contraption that helped get the booze into him quicker while simultaneously causing a large group of onlookers to hoot, holler, whistle and pump the air with their fists.

Hey, the man knew how to work a crowd.

One Sunday night after junior/senior weekend, Tank was dropped off at his home while still under the influence of whatever he’d ingested over the weekend. Apparently Tank started drinking on Friday and didn’t come up for air until he was rolled out of the back of a pickup truck onto his parents’ driveway late Sunday night.

Tank got up off the driveway and made his way into the house. His parents were asleep, so he figured by the time he woke up the next day he’d be sober. He’d been suppressing a violent urge to empty his bladder for most of the ride home, and at this point he either had to find a restroom or a battleship needing to be lifted from dry dock.

Being very careful not to wake anyone, Tank turned a corner and found what he was looking for. For the next three minutes, Tank emptied his bladder and enjoyed a sense of relief usually only felt by astronauts safely reentering the earth’s atmosphere and Jay-Z after his sister-in-law has been subdued.

The next morning Tank awoke to the familiar smell of frying bacon emanating from the kitchen. He walked into the kitchen and told his parents about all the fun he’d had over the weekend. After breakfast, Tank jumped in the shower while his folks went to their room to get ready for work.

Two minutes into his shower, the door to Tank’s bedroom flew open. His mother charged in full of rage, holding a pair of expensive dress shoes that were soaking wet. As it turns out, the night before Tank had mistaken his mother’s shoe rack for a toilet. Neighbors said they could hear Tank screaming, but since he wasn’t well liked no one called the cops.

When Tank came to school his face was bruised and covered with bandages. His mom had pummeled him with several pairs of shoes he’d irrigated the night before. He tried to play off the “Louis Vuitton” and “Gucci” logos embedded in his forehead as tattoos, but nobody believed him.

For the rest of the school year his classmates referred to him as Thom McAn The Culligan Man. As of this writing, Tank is an adult diaper salesman in Calypso, N.C.

Jon Dawson’s columns appear every Tuesday and Thursday in The Free Press. Contact Jon at 252-559-1092 or jon.dawson@kinston.com. Purchase Jon’s books at www.jondawson.com and The Free Press office.